Dreaming
by Melchior the Mewthree
Summary: Are our dreams just that; dreams? Or are they more real than we can imagine? How could one know the truth? How could one truly see what makes our world? Please R&R. (Prologue)


**_Introduction_**

I dedicate this fic to my good friend and main character of this story, Michael Gjorven, though you people probably know him as **Q5**. Check some of his stuff while you're at it. You can find him in my Favorite Authors list.

This fic wouldn't be coming out if it wasn't for his trust in me and his support, not to mention the way he puts up with my constant e-mailing and bickering. ^.^*

Mike, if you're reading this, I promise not to torture you... much. ;)

By the way, that really is his house, his Siberian husky, and his favorite cereal brand. ^^

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**_Dreaming_**

_by_

**_Melchior the Mewthree_**

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**_Prologue_**

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He woke up with the rain pelting the bedroom window, a hypnotic sound lulling him back to sleep. Michael wished he could stay in bed for just a while longer. But he had too much to do.

He groggily stepped out of bed, still wrapped like an Egyptian mummy in layers after layers of white sheets. It had gotten really cold the last days, and he wondered when was it going to snow. He only didn't feel colder because he slept with his clothes on, even though some people might have found that strange.

The carpeted floor was quite comfy beneath his feet as he made his way towards the bedroom door, yawning and longing to rid his mouth of that morning taste. His parents and brother were still asleep, and he checked the clock by his bed to see red numbers glaring 8:32 AM at him. Too early, just too damn early. Why was he up so early, anyway? Oh yes, things to do. Not to mention church at ten-thirty.

His mind was completely focused in the moment, and he could hear the faucet pouring water, the toothbrush traveling up and down, left and right through his mouth, teeth and tongue. There were bags beneath his dark-brown eyes, and his wood-brown hair certainly had seen better days. Combing it would be hell.

The morning duties done, Michael ate a solitary breakfast, cereal and milk filling his mouth as the faint twilight filled the kitchen. Honey Bunches of Oats; his favorite. The rain splattered on the windows, like liquid artillery trying to trespass a glass trench. Michael felt like he could just fall asleep right there.

What did he have to do, anyway? It seemed to escape him, somehow. As he tried to remember, Kodiak scampered to him, sniffing the cereal bowl with interest.

"Oh, no," he said, as he noticed his husky eyeing him with pleading pale-blue eyes. "You got your own food. This one is mine." But the dog held his gaze, an insistent look like that of a homeless child, silently asking for just a bite, just a little so he could ease his starving and sleep without the pain waking him up. "Oh right, but just a little."

The dog visibly bristled as a tidbit of human morning food went to his bowl. He ate it in one gulp, then licked the recipient with a large pink tongue to the point of almost taking the color off it, or at least that's what Michael imagined. The large but otherwise docile and, in Michael's opinion, dummy animal went to his small bed afterwards, falling asleep almost immediately.

_Lazy butt._

Back to his food, Michael went once more to recalling what was he to do that day. It was Sunday, the holydays were coming, and he had quite some time away from school, which meant he could actually get to work on his fanfictions. But, as he watched the probably freezing rain outside, he wondered; did he really have to? FF.Net would be there tomorrow, wouldn't it?

Taking his bowl to the sink, he thought he saw something at the corner of his eye. He turned his head sharply, but there was nothing in that gray-lighted spot of the kitchen. He looked at Kodiak, but the canine was still within dreamland, probably chasing a ball through some yard, considering how his legs twitched and how he uttered little barks. It was quite funny to watch.

He went back to the sink, and began washing the dishes.

_Too tired, I'm just too tired. Why am I waking up early during a Sunday if I know I'll probably not get a thing done, anyway?_

The living room was silent, dead silent, as Michael walked through it. Except for the rain outside, time seemed to have gone still in his house, the shadows covered the dark corners aplenty and everything was colored in shades of gray. That was not a cheery morning, not in the least. A cup of water rested in his hands, freezing them like he thought the rain would. It was cold.

He had to do something. He was already up, and falling back asleep would be very improbable, not to mention there were still two hours before church. He couldn't just waste his Sunday awake and doing nothing. But wasn't that what he always did?

Another movement. He turned yet again, but saw nothing there, and the canine mumbling from the kitchen proved that either his dog could be in two places at once, or he was really losing it. The silence became roaring, even the rain snuffed for some reason.

He turned around, and this time he saw it, the shock making the glass fall from a limp hand and break apart. Sitting on a cushioned chair, looking at him with unimaginably deep green eyes, was some sort of canine, maybe a fox, but he had never seen anything like it. Its fur was white as death, trimmed with dark rings, and its long ears tipped from side to side to some internal tune, as it eyed Michael with curiosity.

The teen's first thoughts were: _What the hell is that thing and how the hell did it get in here? _He examined the animal carefully, trying to find out what it was, until it finally clicked. He had seen that before, or at least imagined, even though he did never phantom seeing one for real.

The thing seemed amused by Michael's reaction, and it studied him in such a scrutinizing way that he felt strangely violated.

The shadows looked like they had grown around him, slowly devouring the faint light. The rain had stopped completely, or at least it seemed that way.

A grin formed in the creature's muzzle, something Michael never thought a muzzle could do. _What is it Mike? _a voice spoke to the teenager's mind, sending chills up his spine. _I didn't think you'd be so surprised._

Michael still tried to reason that situation. _I'm just tired. I'm just too damn fuckin' tired. I just need some sleep._

_You already slept enough, _came the umbreon's voice. _It's time to wake up._

"This is not real," the distraught kid said to himself. "This is just a dream, nothing more than a dream. Just a really fucked up and real dream. I just have to wake up."

_That's what I've been trying to tell you..._

"SHUT UP!" Michael screamed at the top of his lungs, clutching his head. "Shut up, get off my head!"

He stood there for a moment, his eyes closed and his body shaking with anger and scare. He then looked, gingerly and slowly, at the white umbreon. The thing's eyes were slightly wide, and the grin was gone, but he soon settled in that same initial expression, his tail the one moving now. Michael's mind was for once silent.

He sighed in slight relief, and then he pinched his arm. Hard. He kept twisting the skin in his fingers, the pain starting to really get to him, but he wouldn't wake up. That wasn't a dream. At least, not an average one.

_Sorry if I scared you. _The voice this time was softer, but Michael found himself glaring at the pokemon anyway. _I didn't know you'd react this way._

"Who are you, anyway?" the teen asked, choosing to go along his insanity.

_Nothing really has a name but, if you want to call me something, then you can call me Odin._

Odin? Odin. Where did he hear that before? The name was familiar, somehow, and he wasn't thinking about Nordic mythology.

_If you can't remember that, then does the name Melchior ring a bell?_

That surely rang a bell, all right. Michael looked at the before imaginary creature with eyes the size of dinner plates. "You mean... Melchior? _The _Melchior? The dude I've been sending messages back and forth for months?"

The grin was back._ Yep, pretty much._

"And you're his poodle?" he asked, the situation starting to dawn on him quite effectively.

_Well... not anymore, but that's pretty much it._

Michael's mouth was agape. That was definitely something you didn't see or hear everyday. "But... how..."

_I think he is the one who should answer that, _the dark type interrupted him. _He's the one who got me like this, after all. Oh, and you'll have to take your dog too._

"Ah... why exactly?" he asked, suspiciously.

_Don't you want an arcanine? I think Kodiak would be great as one. Besides, M really wants to see him._

"I kinda prefer a scizor but," he shrugged. "I guess it works, even though I'm not really eager to change my dog into an imaginary creature."

_Great! Now you hang on to your shorts, Dorothy, 'cause Kansas is going bye-bye!_

"Huh? What?" But he couldn't say anything anymore as the shadows swallowed him, the last image he saw being the unusually colored umbreon with that familiar grin.

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End file.
